Tall Is The Mountain That Bullies The Stream
by nothing-rhymes-with-ianto
Summary: Owen has met his father once. He hasn't seen him again.


_I started this months ago, then got stuck and abandoned it. I finally picked it up again and finished it._

* * *

Owen met his father once. Well, that's sort of a lie. His father hung around for the first year of his life, but he doesn't remember that at all, of course. So technically, he met his father once.

He was seven, a scrawny little blondish kid in a too-big parka, with large dark eyes that were finally starting to glare out at the world in anger and distrust. He lived with his mum in a dingy grey flat on the third floor that smelled half the time of dirty laundry and the other half of the time of the sharp, brown smell of spilt alcohol. The landlord thought he and his mum were hopeless. The boys at school thought he was weird.

He had been colouring at the table, one eye on the blaring, yellow-tinged telly when the sound of the door buzzer had grated his ears. His mum answered it. Some sort of quiet argument occurred between his mum and the caller over the intercom, but he ignored it. He was used to her angry tones.

She shuffled back into the room, barely glancing at him before going to the cabinet where he knew she kept that foul-smelling brown stuff that made her walk funny and say mean things. She was still in her faded pink dressing gown, her light brown hair messy and static and fanning out away from her face. Taking down a glass bottle, she uncapped it and took a quick but healthy pull from it, shaking her head once at the burn as she put the stopper in and put it back on the shelf.

A knock sounded. Mum sighed and leaned her hands on the sink, her head hanging. Owen wondered if he'd disappointed her again; that was her usual reaction to him doing something like drawing on the wall or taking apart the VCR with his little screwdriver to see how it worked or asking too many questions about why things were the way they were. He cringed back, hoping she wouldn't yell at him, but she just rolled her shoulders and sighed again. Then she pushed off and went to answer the door.

A man followed her inside. He was tall and big, with unruly brown hair and squinty brown eyes. His body was lean but blocky, and muscular with arms that bulged out and stretched the tiny sleeves of his white t-shirt. Owen's mother looked tiny beside the man. The only part of him that reminded Owen of himself were the thin lips, stretched wide across his face.

"Mum?" He turned round on the chair to look, a pencil still in his hand.

His mother sighed. She ran a hand through her hair and gestured vaguely towards the man standing awkwardly in the kitchen, looking both angry and wary and slightly nervous. "This is your father."

Owen didn't feel surprise, or happiness, or anything, really. It was just something else, just another thing that _was_. He was getting used to things that just _were_. Things that he couldn't change, or that wouldn't. Things he didn't understand. Things he was slowly starting to suss out on his own.

"Okay."

"Hullo, Owen." The man stuck out a hand. Owen looked at it. "I'm Dillon."

"Okay." He didn't shake the hand under his nose. It looked hairy and strange. He shifted in his seat, suddenly uncomfortable.

"Say hello, Owen." His mum's voice was harsher than normal.

"Hello, Dillon." The man's hands were big and cold and clammy and rough, like a fish if you rubbed it backwards. He looked at his mum curiously.

"Dillon's gonna take you out today. He wanted to see you." She finished the sentence off with a glare in Dillon's direction.

"Oh." He looked back and forth between the two grown-ups. Neither looked happy. He squirmed in his chair; he had a feeling he had to do with their frowning faces. He looked away, and mum and the man went into the other room to whisper furiously at each other as he fidgeted about and tried not to eavesdrop.

An hour later, he'd been packaged into his too-big jumper, and an ugly wool hat had been shoved on his head, and he was half-walking, half-trotting down the street beside the strange Dillon man's right leg.

"What do you want to do, Owen?" Owen shrugged floppily in his coat. "Let's get some lunch, then."

They got chips at a stand and sat on a bench, eating. Owen answered Dillon's questions about school and his mates and his hobbies with one word answers. Dillon seemed annoyed. The man, his father—and wasn't that odd— sighed, balled up his chip wrapper and dropped it on the pavement in front of him.

"So your mum never told you about me, then?"

"No."

"Never said anything?"

"Not really. When she's angry at me, sometimes she says stuff about you." Owen folded his own chip wrapper into a neat square and placed it on the bench beside him. He looked up at Dillon. "How come you're here now?"

"I just wanted to meet you. I remember when you were little."

"I don't remember you."

"You were a baby."

"Oh."

There was silence after that, until Dillon decided that going to the arcade seemed like a good thing to do with a seven year old, and Owen was dragged off to the flashy and loud arena of games.

They played a few games together, mostly in silence. After a four or five games, Owen rounded on his newly gained father-thing, frowning.

"Why do you keep letting me win?"

"What?"

"You keep letting me win. Don't do that. It's stupid. You're ruining the game."

Dillon tossed the arcade gun back in its port. "Jesus Christ. I thought dads were supposed to let their kids win the video games."

"No. You're s'posed to just play the game."

"I don't even know why I came here. How does your mother put up with you?"

Owen shrugged. Dillon growled, spinning round and storming away, leaving Owen on his own to play the game, which was how he liked it. When you didn't know things, when things just _were_ and you couldn't change them, it was always nice to just be alone. You could suss out things for yourself or leave them. He'd learnt this quite quickly. He liked being alone, most of the time. He could think or read his books on dinosaurs and mummies, or play checkers with himself. Now, he played a racing game against the computer.

It was half an hour before Dillon came back, looking a bit rumpled, and Owen had managed to go through most of the shooter and racing games. Dillon patted him on the shoulder. He flinched at the touch and looked up.

"Come on, buddy. It's time to go."

"But—"

"No, come on, let's go." He gave Owen's arm a tug, grip tightening. Owen could feel each individual finger digging into the flesh of his bicep. He released the joystick mid-game and stepped away. Dillon's fingers clenched his shoulder the whole way out of the arcade.

Owen was ushered into a tiny ground floor flat that was messy and full of smoke that made him cough a little. It smelled funny. The living room was full of books and papers, with clothes an dishes scattered about the floor, crumbs crushed into the rug. The shelves were cluttered with knick-knacks and the click of a beaded curtain drifted in from somewhere in the house. Owen didn't know what to do, so he sat on the couch. It just seemed like the right thing.

"Just stay there, okay?"

"Okay."

"And don't talk."

"I don't have anything to say."

"Just, don't talk, then."

Owen didn't know why grown-ups always told him not to talk when he wasn't going to say anything. But he stayed sitting on the sofa and looked at the messy brown coffee table in front of him. It was cluttered with full-up ashtrays and sweets wrappers and various books of all sorts.

Dillon talked quietly to the man who owned the flat while Owen flipped through a big anatomy textbook on the coffee table. The pictures were interesting, and he peered at them while trying to listen to the conversation happening a few feet away. Mostly he didn't really understand the whispered words, but he watched out of the corner of his eye as Dillon gave the scruffy flat-owner money and the flat-owner handed Dillon a little bag. Owen wondered what Dillon wanted with a bag of sugar. But it wasn't his business, and grown ups were confusing, so he went back to the interesting book full of drawings of muscles and veins and organs.

"I don't know what to do with kids," Dillon's voice drifted to him. "I don't know him, I don't know any kids. I mean, I just wanted to meet him now that he's older. I was around, they were home. I took him to the arcade, but I can't think of anything else to do with a kid. His mum expects me to be out with him most of the day. What should I do with him?"

"Take him to the park," Scruffy's voice answered. There was an apathetic shrug audible in his tone. "All kids like parks."

"Thanks."

The heavy hand descended on his shoulder again and Owen looked up from the interesting book. Scruffy had already disappeared into another room in the flat. There was the sound of drawers opening and closing somewhere, someone muttering to himself in low tones. In the reflection in the dark television, Owen could see the bag making Dillon's back pocket bulge a little.

"Put that away now, Owen. We're going to go to the park."

"I want to look at the pictures. They're cool."

The fingers tightened on his shoulder and he winced. Dillon's voice was gruff. "No, we're going to go to the park. Put the book away. Let's go."

Owen shrugged, trying to be nonchalant, and shut the book. "Okay."

He followed a few lagging steps behind Dillon to the park, staring up at the solid back in front of him. The park was nearly empty; just a pair of girls and their mother was there, and Dillon flinched in annoyance every time one of the girls let out a laughing shriek. Dillon sat at one of the shabby benches while Owen wandered over to the play structure.

He climbed up to the slide and felt everything slot comfortably into place. This was familiar. This was normal. The feeling of his brain sliding into content blankness with the entertainment of movement was a relief. He welcomed it and played happily by himself on the slides and climbing bars. He paid the two girls almost no attention at all. He forgot about Dillon sitting on the bench not far away and just let his mind wander into the private cave he loved, the place where nothing was confusing or strange or frightening and he could just be alone.

The day was turning gold and the girls had gone away when Dillon finally walked over and called his name, exasperation obvious in his voice. He gestured to the empty park. "I've been sitting here for hours. Let's go, Owen."

But Owen finally felt comfortable and it was nice up there in the play structure. He liked comfortable and normal, and this Dillon man was still practically a stranger. He didn't like that.

"I don't want to. I like it here."

"Let's _go_." A hand reached out and tugged him to the edge of the platform. "It's time to go."

Owen glared. "You're not my dad. You didn't ever come round before. I don't even know you. You can't tell me what to do. I want to stay _here_."

Suddenly Owen was yanked roughly off the play structure and heaved under one of Dillon's arms. He struggled against the grip, but his efforts felt feeble. Dillon said nothing as he marched away from the park. Behind an ugly old building, Owen was set down hard enough to send him falling over backward onto his bottom. Dillon towered above him. Owen felt his gut trembling, and cowered back from the ruddy face.

"Listen, you stupid little kid," Dillon pointed a finger in Owen's face, thin lips stretched in a grimace of rage. "Your mother was dumb enough to keep you. But she didn't teach you to respect your parents or adults who take you out. I'm your father. You're going to listen to me."

Owen clambered to his feet, incensed. "You're not my—"

The slap to the face stung, and Owen stopped mid-sentence, surprised, to raise a hand to his cheek. He'd never been hit before, not by a grown-up. Not by someone whose fists weren't little boy-weak.

"Don't argue with me. Little boys who argue with their fathers never go anywhere. Always turn into useless piles of shit like you're gonna be." Owen flinched as flecks of spit landed on his face. "You'll be worthless like your mum."

"Don't talk about Mum like that!"

"Shut up, you little twat. Don't argue with me." This time it was a punch, none too gentle. Owen tasted blood, his lip stinging with the blow. His cheek felt hot. He raised one hand to shield his face but Dillon grabbed it and twisted, yanking his fingers into an impossible position. Owen cried out helplessly, tears of pain and terror spilling down his cheeks. Dillon sneered and grabbed his hair, using his other hand to wipe them away roughly.

"Don't cry, you pussy. I'm trying to show you how to listen to your parents." Dillon's voice was a gravel-filled yell. A gob of spittle landed and slid down Owen's chin. "A boy needs to learn to listen." Owen curled into himself at the blow of a knee in his gut, trying not to vomit. He barely felt the next kick, but fell against the wall at its force.

"Stop it!" Owen held up his hands, trying to fend Dillon off. "Stop! Stop it!"

Dillon wrenched Owen's head up by his hair and stared into his face. "Are you going to listen to me from now on? Are you?" Owen nodded silently. His scalp felt stretched and tingling. He could feel bruises forming aches on his stomach, his leg. He'd done something wrong, something bad that grown-ups didn't like. He just didn't know what. "Good. Let's go home to your mum. I'm tired of you, kid."

Dillon strode away without a backward glance, and Owen had no choice but to follow. He didn't know how to get home. He hurried along behind Dillon's long strides, left thumb set firmly in his mouth, at an angle to avoid his swelling lip. His new father-thing didn't look at him. Owen wondered why grown-ups were so confusing, why they expected him to do things when they didn't tell him what they were.

The glass-fronted door to their building slammed shut, the window rattling in its frame. Owen jumped at the noise. It was too warm in the landing. Owen hugged the wall as he followed Dillon up the stairs and tried to rub the dried blood off his mouth so his mum wouldn't see.

It didn't matter. She was asleep on the sofa, a cluster of brown bottles on the shabby yellow coffee table in front of her. One hand was hanging off the side into mid-air. Dillon sat Owen down in the kitchen chair he'd been on this morning. His half-done colouring books were still sitting there, the crayons rolled off to the other edge of the table to rest against a dirty plate still left out.

Dillon knelt down in front of him and gripped his shoulders. Owen shrank under the pressure of his fingers, the small dark eyes that stared into him. He was commanded to look. Owen stared at the door over Dillon's shoulder, trembling. He was commanded to look again, this time accompanied by a shake. Holding back scared tears, he looked up into the man's face.

"You don't tell her, all right? You're dumb, but you're not that dumb. Right?" Owen shook his head. "Good."

Dillon's hands unclenched from Owen's shoulders and he turned way. Owen watched the angry back recede, the door closing with a loud, resounding click. Mum slept on, oblivious. Owen could tell she'd be cranky in the morning. He got off the chair and filled a glass of water from the tap and put it beside her. He remembered that she drank a lot of water after there were lots of bottles like that, and the water made her not so mad. He wanted her to be nice tomorrow. He didn't want to be yelled at again.

Then he went to the bathroom and made a bath. It felt good and hot where his stomach ached and he scrubbed at himself with a washcloth until he was red all over. He put on pyjamas and got into bed, clutching his ratty old teddy bear to his chest and curling up against the ache in his gut. He hummed a lullaby to himself and tried to ignore that it felt like he was throbbing all over. It took him hours to fall asleep, and when he did it was way past his bedtime.

wen sat at the kitchen table, quietly colouring as he waited for Mum to finally stop being grumpy. She was finishing washing the dishes that had been sitting in the sink that week. Owen listened to her muttering about stubborn plates and water-wrinkled hands until she shut off the water. She sat down at the table and didn't notice that he was sitting strangely, or his stiff movements, his grimaces.

"So how was your day with your dad?" Owen shrugged and didn't look up. His belly still ached, and she hadn't noticed the purpling bruise on his cheek. "Did he say he wanted to see you again?" Owen shrugged again. "Do you want to see him again?"

The crayon slipped from Owen's fingers and rolled across the tilted table. He watched it fall off the edge and roll towards the telly. Something clenched in his stomach and he couldn't look at her. The thumb of his left hand found its way into his mouth. "No."


End file.
